


'Tis the Season

by kototyph



Series: Halloween Trick or Treat Ficlets [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Cigars, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 12:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kototyph/pseuds/kototyph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt:</p><blockquote>
  <p>"trick or treat! :D crobby.... and christmas fluff? I know it's still october XD but i've been dying for christmas fluff :D yay! so wonderful for you to do this <3"</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	'Tis the Season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littleredcookbook](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=littleredcookbook).



God _damn_ , this house is loud.

"'M gonna go— out," Bobby says, pointing awkwardly towards the back door. No one looks up. No one _hears_ him, because they're all too busy nattering away at each other at a hundred decibels apiece, and Bobby creeps out the of living room, into the kitchen and doesn't bother with more than his boots before shuffling out the mudroom door into the snowy night.

Christmas Eve and it's colder than a witches' tits, but the minute the door closes behind him the noise drops to a dull roar and he breathes a sigh of relief. He can finally hear himself think again.

Bobby lives alone, completely alone for 358 days out of every year, so excuse him if a week of crazy courtesy of the Harvelles, Turner, the damnfool Winchesters and the blasted _angels_ those boys keep picking up is enough to send a man fleeing to his own back porch. And damn the whipping wind and the two fresh feet of powder that fell while they ate dinner, he's staying out here until everybody leaves or his fingers fall off.

There are two cheap gas station cigars in his pocket and Bobby fishes one out, holds the butt in his teeth while he tries to keep a lit match going long enough to light the end.

"Oh, please," someone says around the fourth or fifth match, and lighter with delicate silver filigree scalloping along its edges appears under his nose.

"Not s'pose to light 'em with those," Bobby says around the cigar. "Makes it taste funny."

"Can someone with your utter lack of palate really notice the difference, I wonder?" Crowley muses, snapping the lighter closed with a flick of his wrist. Fingers dip into Bobby's front pocket, and before he can tell the handsy sumbitch to keep them to himself Crowley's pulling back, examining the second cigar in the dim light filtering out through the kitchen windows.

"Good Lord, Robert," the demon says, cufflinks glinting as he turns it this way and that. "Did you dry some ditchweed and roll it in tarpaper?"

"Nobody asked you to take it," Bobby points out, hunching his shoulders against the chill and stubbornly determined to enjoy the gritty burn of the smoke in his mouth, even if the company leaves something to be desired.

"Hm," Crowley comments, and the lighter flares again. There's a moment of silence, and a few thoughtful puffs. "… remarkably like smoking dog shite, this."

"Shut up or get lost," Bobby says gruffly. And. He means ' _and_ get lost'.

"In a moment," Crowley says, breathing a long plume smoke into the air. "Be a dear and hold this, will you?"

"What—?" Bobby suddenly has a cigar in each hand and he looks between them, looks back to Crowley suspiciously. "Why?"

"Because I asked nicely," the demon says. "And also because… three, two, one—"

The door behind Bobby is flung open and Dean says, "Yo, Bobby, me 'n Sam were gonna— _oh fuck my eyes."_

" _NNMMM_ ," Bobby manages around Crowley's tongue, but before he can go for the hunting knives in his boots the demon is dancing back, cigar once more glowing between his index and middle fingers.

"Happy Christmas, Robert," he purrs. "Ta til next year."

"Dude," Dean says, muffled and pained behind the hands covering his face.

"Goddamn it!" Bobby yells, but he's shouting at an empty porch."I'm gonna kill you, you slimy son of a bitch!"

"Uh huh," Sam says slowly, peering at him over Dean's shoulder. "I'm… going to take it as granted you're coming on the beer run?"

"Not enough beer in the world," Bobby mutters under his breath, shouldering the boys aside and stomping into the house. "But there might be enough bourbon."

"I'm comin' too, then!" Ellen calls from the den.

"We'll take the truck!" he calls back.


End file.
